His Own Worst Enemy
by Ariana Raven
Summary: "What was I thinking? That I could give Shane a big hug and everything would be all right? That somehow he wasn't as messed up as he seemed? Did I honestly think that the damage to his soul didn't run deeper than I could fix? Whatever was going through my head at the time, I was a dad-gum idiot. I'm still one, because I'm fool enough to let myself hope it might be working."
1. Chapter 1: Not Like This

****Author's Note (because there wasn't room in the description)****

**Okay, so this story is rated T for lots of gore, which should be obvious considering this is the Walking Dead we're talking about.**

**Anyhow, now that that's said, in case you didn't gather as much from the title and description, this is going to be a Shane Walsh x OC fic, about what could have happened if someone had come along and saved him from himself, before it was too late. It's written from the POV of my original character, Alexandra "Alex" Harvey, who's alone in Atlanta (a very bad idea, honestly) before she's found by the group at the same time Rick is.**

Chapter One: Not Like This

_I am so dead._

The same sentence runs through my head, over and over as I sprint for my life. It's not a hysterical thought, is the funny thing. It's just a fact. It's hot outside. The sky looks like it's going to rain. I am going to die.

Facts tend to be the only thing that runs through my head when I'm in survival mode. I don't feel, just act. Things register vaguely in my brain, only mattering for an instant while I process them and file the information away into its proper place. Most thoughts don't happen more than once before moving aside to make room for the next one. Except the dying thing. That one just keeps coming back.

To be honest, I don't know why. Dying's never really scared me in and of itself, not since the world as I knew it ended, at least. So why am I running, then? Good question. When I give myself room to think about things like that, I figure I might not mind leaving this nasty place and going somewhere nicer. But in the new world, that option is generally a whole lot messier than it used to be.

Besides, I know that dying would be easier than fighting it, for me at least—and if there's anything I've learned in the last few months, it's that easy and right very rarely come in the same package. That knowledge by itself might not stop me from just lying down and letting this harsh place consume me, but there's also the slight problem of that being a literal statement.

When you get right down to it, that's the real reason I'm running: because I don't want to be a meal. And also because this particular brand of threat prefers to consume its food alive, if it even does you the courtesy of finishing you off.

I guess, in that way, I'm luckier than some. If I'm going to end up a walker's lunch, at least it's like this—broad daylight, streets crowded with the undead, a horde of them on my heels. At least I get the chance to run, and the knowledge that when I do go down it will be quick. Five minutes, tops. Five minutes of horrific anguish and mindless terror between the moment the snarling throng catches up to me and the moment one of the dozens feeding on my living body rips my throat out, causing me to drown mercifully in my own blood a few seconds later.

But at least it's not by ambush at night, a lone geek sneaking up behind me when I've got my guard down, then leaving me half eaten before shambling off to find a cow to munch on. That would be a lot more painful; take a lot longer, too.

I spare a glance over my shoulder at the crowd behind me, trying to see through the haze of sweat that's running from my hairline into my eyes. The salt is painful, especially with the wind from my own momentum already stinging my face, but I know better than to close my eyes against it, or even blink too much.

The walkers are so close now that I can smell the stench of decay that clings to their half-rotted flesh, as well as the fresher scent of their most recent prey's blood, still wet on their ragged clothes. Maybe a dog, or a cat. Household pets are now prey, just as much as the rest of us.

Looking at the walkers, it surprises me, as it never ceases to, that most of them still bear the vestiges of a former humanity. Even some of the hairdos have remained intact, and here and there a piece of jewelry swings grotesquely from a shriveled neck. There's even one dressed in green, pajama-like scrubs and a long white coat, stethoscope and medical ID hanging from the breast pocket. He was a doctor. Now he's dead and very not dead, all at the same time.

_My father was a doctor, too. Daddy. My daddy was a doctor._

Realizing that I've been staring too long—and also that my thoughts are starting to head in a dangerous direction—I whip my head back around and increase my pace. A larger street, one of the main ones in the city, is right ahead, promising open space as well as more places to hide.

A dangerous burst of hope flares inside me before I can quell it, and fresh adrenalin surges through my veins, propelling my burning legs forward long after I'm beginning to wonder how on earth I'm managing not to collapse. Then again, this probably shouldn't astonish me any more than the geeks' once-human appearance. In situations like this, where things truly get down to the wire and it's do or die, you can really surprise yourself.

_Come on,_ I urge myself forward. _Just a few more feet. You can do it. You were the fastest on your track team, back in the day, and even then you weren't as fit as you are now. You can get out of this._

A walker's hand grazes the back of my sweater, forcing a strangled half-scream, that sounds remarkably like one of their own, from my dry throat. My heart is pounding from more than just the running now, and I clench my teeth together to keep in another shriek that's building in my already strained lungs. I don't know why, but things like that seem to make them hungrier.

Despite my previous spark of hope, I still expect them to grab me sometime in the next couple of seconds, so when I glance over my shoulder and see only a few where before were dozens, I do a double take. Then my stomach jolts again as I look up from my feet and see the reason a lot of them have stopped chasing me, because the main street isn't as safe as I thought.

Some idiot's already come through here; that's his horse they're feeding on, and by the looks of things they have the twerp trapped in one of the abandoned tanks that litter the streets.

_Who rides a dad-gum _horse _into Atlanta, of all places?_ I wonder exasperatedly. _Either he didn't know the city's overrun, or he's just plain stupid._

But then again, my own reasons for being here aren't that much more intelligent. My decision to come was based purely on emotion, not on any form of rational thought. Pure, blind hope was the only thing that drove me into this rotten sinkhole of a place, but now that it's proved not enough to carry me out, perhaps someone else's ignorance will have to do instead.

_Or not, _I realize sickeningly as I turn the corner of the tank, seeing several geeks break off from the mob surrounding it and join those pursuing me. They're coming at me from every side now, drawn by the prospect of an easier meal.

I watch my escape routes being cut off one by one, and with a growing sense of dread that ripples through me in a wave of nausea, I realize that unless a miracle happens in the next thirty seconds, then I'm going to be swallowed by the swarm, both literally and figuratively. Basically, my chances of survival have gone from almost nonexistent to nil, and I know it. I know I'm as good as dead already.

My legs don't stop running just because my head gives up, though. Even though I can barely feel them anymore, my feet keep turning over, hitting the concrete in a series of harsh, rhythmic slaps. I start counting my footsteps dazedly, everything spinning both slower and faster than it should. My life spinning out before me.

I blink more sweat from my eyes and realize suddenly that I'm crying. Why? None of it makes sense. I don't understand why tears are streaming from my eyes when I'm not even afraid. Why aren't I afraid?

I skid to a halt in the middle of the street, reality finally catching up with me. I can't outrun it anymore. I'm done running anyhow.

"Come on, then!" I scream at the things surrounding me. "Come and get me! Just come on already!"

I stand there in the middle of the road, sobbing and scowling, and I wait for death. I wait with teeth bared in a feral grimace, fists up, ready to do what I have to. Death's coming for me for sure, but I'm not going to let it have me without a fight. Maybe if it had come in peace, perhaps in my sleep or some kind of accident, something with at least a little dignity, I would have taken its hand and gone quietly. Just not like this.

_Not like this,_ I repeat in my head, clenching my fists tightly as I hold my ground in a last, stubborn stand. _Not like this._

Then my miracle happens.


	2. Chapter 2: Nothing Much to Lose

****A/N: First of all, thanks so much for reading! So, as you probably are expecting, this is going to follow the canon storyline to some extent. Obviously, though, there are going to be quite a few changes and things will move quite a bit faster than before, since I'm not going to just retell every episode that occurred. This chapter will probably be the closest to what happened in the TV show, so just bear with me for a little while and things will start changing dramatically.****

Chapter Two: Not Much to Lose

It starts with the gunshots. Several of the walkers slump to the concrete, felled by bullets through their heads. At first I think that I'm hallucinating, then I come to my senses and realize that I'm not terrified enough (yet) to start seeing and hearing things that aren't there. Around the same time, it strikes me that whoever is shooting isn't doing so to kill _all _the walkers (obviously not; there are far too many to even make a dent using that approach), but rather make a hole in the crowd for me to escape.

I don't question my good fortune. Taking advantage of the momentary opportunity, I dart forward into the space, praying that a walker doesn't grab hold of me as I pass. Several of them try, but miss. I've reached the outskirts of the pack and think I might be home free, until one gets a grip on my hair, clawing at it and almost ripping it out of my head. A high-pitched shriek pierces the air and I wonder momentarily where it came from.

_Oh, right. That was me._

Reaching to my belt, I draw my knife quickly from its sheath and strike out wildly behind me, hoping to connect with the walker's head but meeting empty space. I change tactics quickly, adapting to the situation. Clenching my jaw in apprehension and hoping it doesn't reel me in before I have a chance to act, I reach to the back of my own head and gather my tangled blonde hair in my fist. One slice of my knife and the geek has nothing to hold onto anymore.

I streak away, head feeling oddly lighter without the burden of long hair, across the street to an alley that seems to hold less geeks than the rest of the place. Hearing the staccato sound of living footsteps besides my own, I glance back and see that the guy who was in the tank has now made a break for it, too, and is now right behind me, firing his gun at random intervals whenever a walker gets too close.

Just as we reach the alley, an Asian kid wearing a faded baseball cap appears right in front of us. In the corner of my vision, I see Tank Guy raise his pistol and take aim, apparently not realizing that Asian Kid isn't a threat.

"Whoa! Not dead!" Asian Kid yelps, skidding backwards, away from the gun. "Come on, up here! Hurry up!"

I grab hold of the bottom rung of the fire escape he leads us to and pull myself up using my arms. Asian Kid and Tank Guy are right behind me, barely getting up in time before the walkers converge on the base of the ladder, moaning loudly and grabbing at thin air where Tank Guy's boots were half a moment ago. All three of us scale the ladder with utmost speed and soon are on the first level of the fire escape.

I peer down at the snarling herd while I catch my breath, finally wiping the sweat from my hairline and out of my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater. Then I yank it off and tie it around my waist, smiling in relief at the way the relatively fresh air feels on my shoulders, which are left bare by my ragged black tank top. The other two are also panting hard and pulling themselves together.

"Thanks," I sigh, addressing Asian Kid. "I was in a real tight spot there. That was some pretty sweet shooting, by the way. Where's your gun?"

"Oh, that wasn't me," Asian Kid replies. "That was another member of my group, Merle Dixon. Dunno why he chose to help you out, because Merle doesn't usually think of anyone but Merle, but he did. I'm Glenn Rhee, by the way."

"Alexandra Harvey," I nod. "But if you call me that, I'll probably hit you. It's Alex."

"Nice to meet you, Alex," Glenn replies, shaking his head and muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "pair of dumb-butts," which I choose to ignore.

Turning to Tank Guy, I give him a once-over, noting his sheriff's uniform and the badge pinned to his chest before extending my hand.

"Alex Harvey," I say simply.

"Rick Grimes," the sheriff replies.

"Uh-huh. And what are you doing in Atlanta by yourself, Rick Grimes?" I frown. "If you were trying to get yourself—and any innocent passerby who happened to be still living—killed, you couldn't have done a better job, really."

"I could ask you the same question," Rick says calmly, fixing me with a stare that seems to see clear through to my inner brain. That look had probably intimidated quite a few criminals, back in the day. Too bad it's the new world, and the law intimidates the living about as much as it does the dead. Now the only thing that matters is how big your gun is.

"Yeah, well I wasn't fool enough to ride in on a stupid horse like a dad-gum cowboy, now was I?" I shoot back. "In fact, if it hadn't been for that, I probably wouldn't have needed saving."

Rick steps back a pace, expression still neutral. "I didn't ask for an argument," he states.

I roll my eyes at the sky in response.

"Hey, guys," Glenn says half-nervously, half-exasperatedly. "Incoming."

I look down below us and see one of the geeks trying to climb up the ladder. It slips back down, but I can see that it won't be long before one of them succeeds. Then all three of us look up at the same time, to where the ladder continues towards the distant rooftop, then back at each other.

"The bright side?" Glenn shrugs. "It'll be the fall that kills us. I'm a glass-half-full kind of guy."

"Says one of the last living human beings left on earth," I murmur, following him up the ladder. Optimism, in my opinion, is just another delusion. In the end, it won't get you anywhere but dead, but then again, I'm not really in the position to judge the survival skills of someone who just helped save my life.

After we make it to the top, we cross several more rooftops until we come to the one Glenn's looking for. There's a hatch in the middle of this one, leading to a ladder, which in turn leads to a staircase and another alley. At this point, Glenn pulls out a walkie talkie from his backpack and turns it on.

"I'm back," he says breathlessly into it, "I've got two guests, plus four geeks in the alley."

I feel a jolt of nervous adrenalin at the mention of geeks, but before I have a chance to even draw my knife, two people in black outfits and helmets materialize in the alleyway and start smashing the walkers' heads in with various blunt implements. After the walkers are dead—or at least deader than they were before—they follow Glenn, who's sprinted across the alley to a door on the other side, and usher Rick and me through it.

The interior of the building is dim and I can't see properly. I blink in the sudden darkness, but before I even have a chance to get my bearings or start to make out anything of my surroundings, something barrels into me and I find myself pressed up against a wall by a blonde woman, who looks to be in her late twenties or so and is holding a gun.

"You brainless cow! I ought to shoot you right now," she grinds out, scowling at me in fury. I glare right back at her.

"You wanna point a gun at someone, point it at him," I hiss. "He's the one who roused the whole street. I just heard gunshots and started running with a whole herd of 'em chasing me; only found out later that it was Sheriff Woody here all along."

"Dumb-butt," Glenn mutters again.

"Andrea, calm down!" of the other guys exclaims, pulling off his helmet.

"Yeah, right, Morales," the woman spits, abruptly releasing her hold on me and whirling on Rick. She presses her gun to his temple, but all he does is stare back at her with the same penetrating gaze he used on me.

"Well, pull the trigger, then," Morales challenges her. Andrea casts one disgusted look back at him, then shifts the gun away from Rick and steps back.

"We're dead. All of us. Because of you," she accuses.

"I don't understand," Rick says confusedly.

"Look," Morales, who is slightly overweight and Hispanic-looking, says. "We came here to scavenge. And the key to scavenging is surviving, which means staying quiet and unnoticed, not riding in and shooting up the streets like it's the OK corral."

Rick says something else, but by then I'm tuning the argument out. My attention is focused on the front of the shop, where a horde of walkers is battering at the glass doors, which are beginning to crack under the strain. I look back at the group of humans with horror on my face.

"Yeah," the other of the two women nods in agreement. "He really made a mess of things."

"You just rang the dinner bell," Andrea says disgustedly.

"T-Dog, see if you can contact the others," Morales says to the group's one black guy.

"The others? You mean the refugee center?" Rick asks hopefully.

"Yeah, they got biscuits waiting at the oven for us," the other woman, who's black like T-Dog but a good ten years older, snorts.

More gunshots ring out across the street and everyone groans.

"Oh, no, is that Dixon?" Andrea sighs.

"What is that maniac doing?" T-Dog exclaims, hurrying up a staircase which presumably leads to the roof. Everyone else follows.

"Dixon?" I inquire, frowning. "Would that be Merle Dixon?"

"Yeah, you know him?" Andrea asks.

"No, but Glenn told me he saved my life. I was stuck in a real tight spot and he took out enough of the geeks for me to get through to safety," I explain.

"Huh. That's strange," she frowns. "Doesn't sound like Merle at all."

"Yeah, that's what Glenn said," I sigh as we reach the roof and pause at the top of the stairs to take in the scene there.

At the edge stands a middle-aged man, presumably Merle, clad in a sleeveless leather jacket and firing off rounds as fast as he can aim. I break off from the angry group and approach him, arms folded.

"Look, dude, I appreciate you saving my life and all," I say loudly, "But you'd better stop doing that. You're drawing in more walkers than you're killing, and wasting bullets to boot."

"Oh, hey, honey girl!" Merle drawls in a gravelly Southern twang, turning to face me. "I was wondering when they'd bring you back. When I saw you in the street, I thought to myself, 'now there is some hot stuff.' And, girl, you are even better up close, even with what you did to all your purty long hair."

I recoil from his leering face, absolutely taken aback.

"Are you for real?" I demand incredulously.

"You bet, sugar—"

"Stop it," I interrupt him, gritting the words through clenched teeth. "I feel violated enough already."

"Sorry, honey," Merle replies with a grating laugh, jumping down from his perch at the edge and dropping his gun on the rooftop gravel. He's suddenly way too close, and he doesn't smell too nice, either. "But I ain't a wasteful man. I do something, I have a reason for it. And the way I figure it, you owe me for saving you. Kind of a knight in shining armor deal, now. What'dya say, baby girl? How 'bout some gratitude?"

"Stop it," a voice barks from behind me. Rick strides forward and shoves Merle away from me, his pistol suddenly pressed up against Merle's temple.

"We'll have none of that," he says quietly, looking him in the eye with that steely gaze. "You'll treat this girl with respect and decency, you drug-dealing, inbred trash."

"I can take care of—" I begin, but Merle cuts me off with a long and hearty laugh.

"Well, lookee here!" he sneers. "We got us a new sheriff in town, boys. Gotta mind our manners now."

"Merle, _enough_!" Andrea yells.

"What'cha gonna do with that gun anyway?" Merle continues, ignoring her. "You ain't gonna kill a man in cold blood. You're a cop."

"All I am anymore is a man looking for his wife and son," Rick replies, his Southern accent still soft and dangerous. "And anyone who gets in the way of that is gonna lose. You're just causin' trouble. Wastin' time and bullets. You better get yourself in line, or you're gonna have to deal with Officer Friendly some more."

"Screw you, man," Merle whines as with one last shake, Rick sets him free, but not before scooping up Merle's gun from where it lies and tossing it to T-Dog. With the Merle situation dealt with, everyone stands around looking at each other, while the former sullenly digs a small package out of his jacket and starts sniffing at it. I don't even want to know what it is, but have the sense that Rick's drug accusation was grounded in reality.

"Look, y'all, we're going to have to come up with a plan," I say exasperatedly. "The streets are crawling with geeks and you know it won't be long before they break in downstairs."

"It's like Times Square down there," Andrea agrees, looking over the side of the roof with a nauseated expression.

"What do you suggest we do?" Rick asks me.

"I have an idea," Glenn says. "How about we try getting out through the sewers? I've scoped this building out millions of times and that's the only thing that goes down. Jaqui, what do you think?"

"Sounds likely to work," the African American woman nods. "The sewers lead all over town."

"How do you know?" Rick asks her.

"I worked in the city zoning office," Jaqui replies.

"Bad idea," I say, shaking my head. "How do you know the walkers aren't down there, too? Plenty of rats to eat. You never know. And even if the sewers are safe, there are probably grates and stuff that would take half a day to get through even if we had the necessary tools."

Rick looks thoughtful for a moment, then his expression changes to something between resolution and uneasiness.

"What is it?" I ask him.

"I have a plan," he sighs. "But it might not work."

"If bad ideas were an Olympic event, this would take the gold," Glenn groans ten minutes later as all of us (except for Merle Dixon, who's still on the roof doing who knows what) pull on rubber gloves.

"I think so, too, but for the lack of a better option, we're going with Rick's plan," I insist grudgingly. "Everyone agrees it's our best shot."

"Ready?" Morales asks, pausing by the door. Rick nods, and he, Morales, and Glenn rush outside, the Asian boy armed with a baseball bat, his job being to cover the other two. When they come back in, Morales and Rick are each supporting one end of a walker's corpse, one of the ones that were in the alley when we got here. They dump it in the middle of the floor and Rick takes the bat from Glenn, using it to smash open an emergency box on the wall containing an axe.

Grabbing the weapon and raising it above his head, Rick starts to bring it down on the corpse but stops just shy of hitting it and throws it down, kneeling next to the dead body to rummage through its pockets.

"Look, if you don't have the spine to go through with it, I will," I say impatiently, striding forward. Rick throws me a look and continues pulling the dead man's wallet out of his pocket, flips it open, and goes through the contents. I pinch the bridge of my nose while he reads the information out loud to the group, as if we're undertakers and this is someone's funeral. I don't see the point, personally, in mourning any longer for the dead. Like shiny badges and optimism, that sort of thing belongs to a past world. In this one, it's better to move on and spend your time protecting the living.

When Rick's through with his little service, he seems to transform into a more businesslike persona. He picks up the axe again, but this time is stopped by Glenn.

"One more thing," the Asian boy says, his face serious. "He was an organ donor."

I snort with laughter at the quip, but mainly because it's the alternative to turning around and puking on the nearest display. I clench my jaw in frustration at my own weakness and force myself to watch as the axe swings down and cleaves into the corpse with a wet squishing sound.

"Ohhh," Andrea groans, covering her nose with her hand.

"Ugghh," Glenn concurs.

Rick takes a deep breath and another swing. This one chops through the cadaver's midsection, revealing a mess of intestines and splattering the floor with indescribable gore. He continues chopping until the corpse is more mush than anything else, then we all gather round the grisly mess, wearing identical nauseated expressions.

"Don't get any on your skin or in your eyes, Rick orders, removing the visor. "Be careful."

"Yeah, because I intend to take a bath in the stuff," I snort. "It's such an amazing exfoliant."

No one replies to that, too absorbed in their own disgust as we all bend over the body like participants in some bizarre ritual, scoop up handfuls of gore, and start to smear them all over Rick and Glenn's coats.

"Ohhh," the latter moans again. "I'm gonna be sick."

"Think of something else," Rick instructs. "Puppies and kittens."

"Dead puppies and kittens," T-Dog mumbles, pulling a long string of guts out of the corpse's mangled stomach. Glenn goes even greener, turns to the side, and retches violently. I look up at the ceiling and breathe deeply through my nose, trying to ignore the splattering sound of vomit hitting tile.

"Glenn, take off your coat," I say evenly.

"What?" Glenn coughs, still leaning over.

"Take it off. I'm going instead."

"No, you're not," he contradicts.

"Yes, I am. I've already almost died once today. Might as well go for two; and besides, I haven't eaten in twenty-four hours so I'm a lot less likely to barf. Now switch coats with me, before I change my mind."

"I won't throw up again. I don't have anything left in my stomach," Glenn protests halfheartedly.

"Just give me the stinking coat," I sigh, closing my eyes. "You don't want to go anyway. I do. Now hand it over."

"Okay," he says uncertainly, shrugging out of the disgusting article with utmost care as I do the same with my coat. I take his from him and stick my arms into the sleeves, trying to ignore the smell as I button it up over my clothes. Rick gives me another one of his looks.

"What?" I demand.

"Nothing," he replies, shaking his head.

"It's not like I have much to lose," I defend myself, draping a section of intestine around my neck. "Just a life I don't really want anyway. I don't have a family to look for, like you do. Not anymore."

"They get eaten?" T-Dog asks.

"Most of them," I say flatly, smearing myself with more…_stuff._ "My cousin survived for a little while. She lived here, in this city. I came here to look for her, and at first I thought I found her. Her house was in one of the last parts of the city to get overrun and she returned there once they finished bombing the place. Radioed me a week later, told me to come meet her on the outskirts. I tried to contact her back when I got the message and got no reply, but I decided to go anyway. She never showed up."

"Then how do you know she isn't still out there?" Glenn asks.

"Maybe I should have said she didn't show up _alive,_" I amend, not meeting his eyes. "Her body was there all right. She didn't see me. I could have gotten away scot-free, but I couldn't just leave my cousin's body wandering around by itself like that, so I stabbed her through the head and hightailed it. A couple more of them saw and started chasing me, and that's how I got into that mess you rescued me from."

No one says a word after I finish my story, so I just stand there and stare at each of them in turn, half expecting Glenn to call me dumb again. He doesn't. Instead, he picks up the baseball bat from where it lies on the ground and hands it to me with something like sympathy in his expression.

"Good luck," he mutters, stepping back a pace.

"Thanks," I say with a harsh laugh. "I'll need it."


	3. Chapter 3: More Than Meets the Eye

Chapter Three: More Than Meets the Eye

Thirty minutes later, good luck is a thing of the past. I'm blowing down the road in a red car whose exact make and model I don't know, but which is insanely fast and extremely scary to drive, gripping the wheel with whitened fingers and trying to put as light a touch on the gas pedal as possible. I haven't driven in a long time, but I still think it's ridiculous for me to be this nervous behind the wheel. After all, less than ten minutes ago, my situation was much, _much _worse.

I shudder as I remember the way they'd overwhelmed the car, beating at the windshield and climbing onto the hood, howling for my blood. And yet I had to turn my back on the monsters, something months of relying on pure, animal instinct has taught me never to do, as I backed the car away as fast as I could. I still can't believe I managed to do it.

I'm just beginning to relax, grinning at the feel of the wind in my newly short hair, when I remember something.

"Brilliant," I mutter with heavy irony, pulling off to the side of the road and hopping out. Before I do anything else, I pop the hood of the car and disable the alarm, because I don't want the sound drawing every walker for miles while I wait for Rick's van to catch up to me. It's something I learned how to do a while back out of necessity, though it took me a couple minutes to figure out and the time cost me dearly.

Once I'm through turning off the wailing car alarm, I stand to the side and wave my arms to flag down the van which I can see the shadow of on the horizon. Thankfully, Rick is an observant driver, because he pulls over as soon as he's within a closer distance.

"Hey, I was just going to make sure you know that I'm making a slight detour," I state as soon as his window rolls down and I've reached the side of the van, informing him of my intentions rather than asking him for permission.

"The plan was to continue back to camp," Rick replies reasonably, looking slightly strained.

"And whose plan was this again?" I point out irascibly. "I don't remember agreeing to follow anyone's plan but my own."

"Could you at least tell me your reason?"

"I have some stuff I need to pick up. I left it in the woods near the outskirts of Atlanta, which means turning around and going back closer to the city. I'll be careful," I finish, giving him a fierce stare that I hope conveys the sense that I can watch my own back without needing anyone else to help me.

"Does that really sound like a good idea to you?" Rick sighs, rubbing his forehead like I'm giving him a headache. "Going _back _to Atlanta, with everything all stirred up like it is? Can't you wait the night before going back to get your stuff?"

"If it was _your_ stuff—"

"Actually, I did leave something there, too," he says before I can get into my argument. "It's very important, so I was planning on going back to get it tomorrow. We can pick your things up then."

I consider this for a moment, lips pursed and head cocked to the side. On the one hand, going back later when there aren't so many walkers out looking for fresh meat sounds like a fantastic idea, but then again, I'm reluctant to agree to any of Rick's plans simply because I don't want him to start feeling like he has any measure of control over me. The guy simply radiates an aura of downright bossiness, and I have a long personal history of authority issues. The best thing about the apocalypse for me used to be that no one could tell me what to do, or not do, anymore.

But perhaps foolishly risking my life again isn't the best move for me to make when I've already pushed that sort of thing to the limit today. Any more would feel like tempting God.

"Okay, fine," I surrender, throwing up my hands. "We'll go tomorrow. Now which way is this camp thing?"

"Just a moment," Rick nods, turning around to ask Glenn the same question. When he turns back to me, his face no longer looks calm.

"So which way is it?" I ask again, a bit impatiently this time.

"Forget the camp for a second, Alex," he groans. "Merle's missing."

"What? Y'all didn't get him?" I sigh, rolling my eyes. "Really, I leave you people alone for a few minutes and you lose somebody. Rick, you were supposed to be the one who made sure that everyone got in the van before you left!"

"I thought he was right there!" Glenn protests, climbing up alongside Rick and sticking his head out the window to talk to me. "We were just moving so fast, and there were walkers everywhere, and he wasn't even helping like the rest of us were or anything. Can you blame us for forgetting him?"

"Not really," I yawn unconcernedly, dismissing Merle from my mind. He might have helped to save my life, but his motives for doing so negate any gratitude I might have once felt to the jerk. "After all, he _was_ a total pervert."

"His brother Daryl is going to be hopping mad, though," Glenn muses uneasily.

"Well, he can get glad in the same pants," I snap. "It's Merle's own fault he got left. He didn't keep up with the program, so it's his loss."

"And anyway, it's no use talking about it here," Rick concludes, glancing around warily as if expecting to see walkers popping up everywhere he looks.

"Agreed," I nod with a mock salute. "Convention dismissed. I'll get back to my car right away, Officer, just as soon as you give me some directions."

"That's okay," Glenn says, hopping out of the van and coming around to stand beside me. "I'll just drive you."

I take one look at the mad gleam in his eye as he stares hungrily at the sleek red car and give a slightly shaky laugh.

"That's okay, Glenn. You can drive it all by yourself. I'll just ride in the van, where it's relatively safe."

"Okay," he agrees absently, already heading towards the car. I walk around to the passenger door of the van, wrinkling my nose when I catch a whiff of my shirt, which is covered in unspeakable mess.

"You guys have any extra clothes back at that camp?" I ask Morales as we pull back onto the road. "Because I honestly don't feel like sleeping in these."

"Neither would I," Morales replies with a chuckle. "Yes, we will be happy to let you borrow some."

"Amy has some jeans that might fit you," Andrea adds, giving me a smile. Her face looks much younger and prettier when her expression isn't cold or angry.

"Who's Amy?" I ask.

"She's my sister."

"You're lucky to still have family alive," I say quietly, looking straight ahead out the windshield. "You know that, right?"

Andrea doesn't reply, but she reaches up from the back of the van and pats me on the shoulder. I stiffen at the contact, and she starts to murmur an apology.

"That's all right," I whisper. "It just feels like a long time since I've been around people. It's going to take me a while to get used to it again, is all."

"We understand," Rick says kindly, glancing at me before returning his eyes to the road. He looks a bit concerned, and so does Andrea for that matter. Her blue eyes are worried as she hands me a cloth that looks like it's been used to clean tires in the past.

"Here. You can get a head start on cleaning yourself up before we get back to camp."

I heave a sigh, take the rag from her, and flip down the visor mirror to assess the damage, starting a little when I see just how rough I look. It's been a little while since I looked in a mirror, and now that I do, I barely recognize myself. This girl can't be only eighteen. The look in her eyes is far older.

Red streaks are smeared across my forehead and there's a coating of grime and sweat that's settled into the hollows of my high cheekbones, making my face look even more gaunt than it is. My light gray eyes have always been large, but now they dominate my face entirely, their sockets purple from stress and lack of sleep. I've definitely lost weight in the last few months, not that I had much meat on my bones to begin with. More dirt and sweat are crusted into the roots of my dark blonde hair and the short ends are jagged and longer on one side than the other, so obviously I'm going to have to even them out as soon as I can locate a pair of scissors.

I try to clean my face with the rag, but most of the dirt appears to be caked onto my skin, so I give up after just a few halfhearted swipes and hand the rag back. The only thing that's going to get all this dirt off is a hot shower, and that's pretty much a pipe dream.

Besides, I'm more tired than I've ever been in my life. I throw one arm across my face to block out the glare from the setting sun and lean back against the seat with my eyes closed, trying to get comfortable. However, it seems like just seconds later that the van is pulling to a halt and a lot of commotion is going on outside.

I slit my eyes open again, scowling at nothing in particular, as everyone bails from the van.

"I'm guessing we're here," I say to Rick, who's the only one still seated.

"Yeah," he replies shortly, shoving his gun into its holster and preparing to exit the vehicle.

I look outside the window and watch the tearful reunions going on outside, bracing myself to enter civilization. I can't procrastinate for too long, though, because after a few minutes, Morales yells for us to come say hello. I heave a sigh and open the passenger door.

The first thing I notice upon reaching the group of people is that Andrea's sister looks a lot like her, but with straight hair instead of curly. Both the sisters are slender rather than skinny, with blue eyes, blonde hair, and pretty faces. I nod to Amy as I pass, noting the tentative smile she gives me in return, and grin to myself, thinking how scary I must look.

Looking ahead of me, I notice several stricken expressions in the crowd. One belongs to a thin brunette woman, another to the small boy standing beside her, and the third to a muscular guy with dark, curly hair and a gun slung across his shoulders.

Beside me, Rick gives a hoarse gasp and staggers forward. At the same time, the boy yells "Dad!" and runs to meet him, the woman right on his heels, her wavy hair streaming out behind her. Rick kneels down to throw his arms around his family—because who else could these people be?—hugging them fiercely and almost sobbing with joy. I smile a little, watching them.

_Miracles can still happen, even in a world like this one._

Then I glance again at the tall man, whose expression is a strange mixture of shock, joy, and apprehension as he looks at the woman in Rick's arms. His dark brown eyes meet Rick's blue ones for an instant and he grins, then rubs his hand awkwardly along the back of his neck as soon as Rick looks away. Something is slightly off about the scene; something more than meets the eye.

Most people don't seem to see this, however, rushing forward to make introductions and get the whole story of what happened back in Atlanta. I hang back a little, crossing my arms nervously across my chest and shifting my weight from foot to foot while I scrutinize each person in turn. In situations like this one, I'm more comfortable as an observer. However, I can't avoid the crowd forever, because eventually Rick mentions me in his narrative and several heads turn to look at me.

"Alex, come say hello," Morales laughs. "We know you're not shy."

Seeing no other option, I stumble uneasily up to the edge of the group.

"My name's Alex Harvey," I say tersely, my sentences sounding awkward and clipped. "I'm from South Carolina but my family moved to Georgia after the word started getting out about the epidemic. I came to Atlanta to meet my cousin, but got in a bit of trouble. Your group rescued me and I joined up with them after that."

No one seems to have much to say now. Several people smile when I meet their eyes, but most of them look a little wary of me. The tall, dark-haired man is the first to speak.

"Alex, huh?" he smiles, his voice deep and slightly husky, with a Southern drawl. "I'm Shane. Welcome to camp."

"Thanks," I nod, unsure of what else to say. There are a few moments of uncomfortable silence, then Andrea clears her throat.

"Amy," she says, addressing her sister. "Do you think some of your clothes might fit Alex? She needs to get hers washed."

"I have some jeans that would fit her," Amy replies. "No clean shirts, though."

"She can borrow one of mine," Rick's wife speaks up, smiling through her tears.

"Thank you," I tell her.

"It's no problem. I'm Lori, and this is Carl. Thanks for helping my husband," she replies, and the boy, Carl, nods in agreement.

"Well, I'd say this calls for a celebration," says an old man with a hat. "Sun's going down. Why don't we get the fires going?"

"Keep them low, though," Shane warns. He seems to be the main authority here, but if I know anything about Rick, that probably won't last long. "We don't want any walkers seeing the light."

"Shane, how long have you guys been here?" Rick asks. "How long was I out?"

Well, at least one of my suspicions is confirmed. They do know each other.

"I don't know, man," Shane says, shaking his head. "But it was a long time. We've been camped here for almost a week."

"Mom said you died," Carl whispers, staring up at his father with wide eyes. Lori bites her lip, glancing up at Shane, then back to Rick.

"She had every reason to believe that," Rick says gently.

****A/N: Once again, thanks for reading! If there's anything you like/don't like about this story in particular, just drop me a review or PM. Hey, I'm even open to plot suggestions (but if you have them, please send them to me now, so that I can work in the foreshadowing if I decide to use your idea and thereby avoid plot holes).**

**Like I said before, I intend to follow the canon storyline for the most part, including Sophia's disappearance, Carl's shooting, etc.-anything that helped grow Shane's character will likely be included. The CDC, however, did not make this list. Really, there was no point in going to the CDC other than the group learning some things they didn't know and taking some much-needed showers, but in this story, as you will see in later chapters, that won't be necessary. Also, character reactions to the aforesaid situations may vary. Alex's presence in the group will change some things.**

**Anyhow, thanks again and enjoy! This is the last "exposition" chapter, I promise-the rest will be mostly various kinds of action. ;) Prepare yourself for character conflict, walker bashing, romantic tension, and perhaps even a catfight or two. (Hint: I don't really like Lori.)****


	4. Chapter 4: Plans and Life Debts

Chapter Four: Plans and Life Debts

By the time the sun goes down and the fires are being lit, I've had time to get to know the names of almost everyone in camp, and to get past my initial discomfort with them. Shane organizes the nighttime chores while the old guy, whose name is Dale, oversees the fire lighting. Rick catches up with his family, Glenn manages the few supplies the group managed to scavenge, and I mostly try to keep up with everything that's going on.

A couple of times, I ask what I can do to help, but most people just smile and tell me not to bother myself. Finally, Lori, who hasn't left Rick's side since he arrived, sees my predicament and gives me something to do. She directs me to a tent, hands me a stack of clean clothes, and tells me to give the dirty ones to Carol, a middle-aged woman with short silver hair who's one of the people on laundry duty tonight, when I'm done. I make sure to thank her before I head off, and she nods absently, her eyes straying across the campground to where the man called Shane stands, giving orders. The look in her eyes is almost angry.

My everpresent curiosity raises its head, but I firmly repress it, telling myself to leave it alone, that I must be getting paranoid if I think anything funny's going on in this camp. I've just been alone too long. Even if something _is _up, it's none of my business; and besides, no one else thinks there is, not even Rick.

I force myself to drop the subject in my head and set about the business of changing clothes. Picking a random tent, I duck inside, praying that the owner doesn't decide to come back anytime soon, and strip as quickly as possible. It goes without saying I'm eager to be rid of these disgusting clothes.

I don't want to mess up someone else's tent, though, so I make sure to toss my cargo pants and tank top out the open flap before zipping it back up to protect my privacy. The clothes I've been given fit loosely, reminding me of all the weight I've lost. My hip bones jut out in a way that's almost scary and I can practically count each rib.

I haven't been able to eat properly in weeks without feeling nauseated, probably as a result of all the disturbing things I've seen since the world ended. Every time I try to put food in my mouth, another of the images that are forever scarred into my head flashes across my mind's eye and I no longer feel like eating. It doesn't matter how many pep talks I give myself, how many words for 'weak' I come up with. Nothing ever changes.

All my life, I've been able to think my way through practically anything, but now that I really need it, the clear mind I've always relied on has deserted me. It's this that scares me the most, far more than even the walkers do.

_"I think, therefore I am."_

So if I can't think anymore, then who am I but no one?

It's not a question with an easy answer, and definitely not one I'm going to be able to solve while standing half-dressed in someone else's tent. I have at least enough control over my mind to know this, so I put these thoughts away just like the other ones and proceed to put on my belt, from which the knife still hangs in its sheath, and my leather combat boots, which are thankfully still fit to wear.

By the time I arrive back at the main center of activity, almost everyone else is seated around various small fires, eating and talking in lowered voices. I give my clothes to the timid Carol, who's one of the only ones still working, and offer again to help her with them. When my offer is politely declined, I head towards the fire where most of the people I know are gathered and sit down in the open spot between Glenn and T-Dog.

"Hey, tough girl," Andrea greets me, smiling. I note with amusement that she seems much more relaxed now we're back at camp. "Tough girl" is definitely a vast improvement to what she called me before.

"You must be hungry," her sister Amy adds, passing me a package half full of fruit newtons. "Here, try these. They're a bit stale, but still okay."

"Thanks, Amy," I say quietly, taking it from her and setting it in my lap. As usual, the food doesn't appeal to me, but I know I'd better ingest something or I won't have enough energy to stay alive next time I'm being chased. Which is bound to happen sooner or later.

"So, Alex," Shane drawls casually from his seat on a log overlooking the circle, "You said you were from South Carolina. What brings you to this area, besides family? Not many people travel that far these days unless they're looking for somewhere safe to stay."

I have the sense that Shane's asking not because he wants to know about me, but just for something to say. It may be my paranoia again, but there seems to be a tension about him belied by his casual talk, something more than just the usual survivor's wariness. I answer anyway, because I, too, prefer conversation to being left alone with my thoughts.

"My dad," I mumble around a mouthful of slightly dry, chewy newton. "He is—was a doctor. When the epidemic started, he didn't believe the reports at first, but then he saw a case with his own eyes. Well, when my dad saw something wrong, he had to fix it as best he could, so it wasn't much longer that he told us to pack up our bags.

"We headed to the only place he thought he could make a difference, the Center for Disease Control outside Atlanta. Most people by then were driving to Atlanta anyway, on account of there being a refugee center there. We beat the crowd by less than a day, but by the time we got to the CDC, they'd already closed their doors and locked themselves inside. One of the researchers came out to talk to my dad and told him—"

I falter, biting my lip. Something tells me that this information would be better kept secret until such time as these people need to know it. I don't even know if I'll be staying with them for that long, anyway; perhaps I'm better off recuperating, then moving on.

"Told him what?" Shane asks.

"Shane, if she doesn't want to talk about it, don't force her to," Rick speaks up, his eyes boring into me even at this distance, sitting across the fire pit from me with his family.

"No, it's okay," I reassure him, searching my brain for information to give them, something to throw them off the scent. "Um, they told my dad about the way the disease works, the way it invades the brain like meningitis. You know about the symptoms, right? The fever? Well, after it's run its course and the person's…well, dead…then it actually restarts the brain stem."

"So they come back to life?" Lori frowns. "Then why…" she trails off, glancing down at her young son.

"Not really," I reply, shaking my head. "The human part of the brain is gone. The person inside, that doesn't come back, and neither do any of the vital functions. No heartbeat, no respiration, no cell regeneration. You're effectively dead, except for mindless instinct. Just one drive."

"And we all know what _that _is," Andrea mutters, scowling into the flames.

"Yeah," I grimace, setting down my food. I won't be eating any more tonight, that's for sure.

"But obviously they can still see, hear, and smell," Shane muses. "How does that work?"

"Do we have to talk about this now?" Lori interrupts, glaring at him. "There are children."

"It's okay, Mom," Carl protests. "I wanna hear."

"These are things we all need to know, Lori," Rick agrees.

"Fine," his wife says exasperatedly, throwing up her hands. I hesitate, though, and Shane looks at me expectantly, prompting me to continue.

"Well, some of the basic senses are retained," I say reluctantly. "Sight works until natural cell deterioration renders it useless—in fact, night vision is improved drastically. They can see better in the dark than we can, no one quite knows how. Hearing, that gets sharper, too. They respond to sounds just like dogs. The sense of smell obviously sticks around, seeing as how they can tell the difference between one of their own and somebody who's still alive."

"Obviously," Glenn mutters, looking vaguely nauseated. I give him a tight smile because I know he's thinking of the same thing I am.

"That's going to be forever scarred in my memory, too," I agree. "About taste, no one really knows the specifics of that one, either. They must retain something of it, because, um…well, studies have been limited for obvious reasons, but they seem to prefer human flesh to any other kind."

There are widespread groans and winces from the entire circle at this last piece of news.

"As for touch, they can tell when something brushes up against them," I continue, fiddling with the straps on my tanker boots so I don't have to look at any of their faces. "But they don't seem to be able to feel pain. You can bash them left, right, and center, but as long as you don't kill the brain, they'll just keep on coming."

A hush falls over the group as I finish my narrative. Lori strokes Carl's hair protectively and Rick's arm tightens around her shoulders.

"What a nightmare," Dale sighs, speaking for the first time.

"I thought it _was _a nightmare at first," Rick says quietly. "I thought I was trapped in some coma dream, something I might not wake up from, ever. Like I'd been ripped out of my life and thrown somewhere else. Disoriented, I guess, is the word that best describes it."

Silence reigns again for a few moments, then T-Dog speaks up.

"We need to talk about Merle Dixon," he says. "I don't feel right leavin' a man like that to fend for himself. Something needs to be done."

"And what about Daryl Dixon?" Dale asks. "Word to the wise: we're gonna have our hands full when he gets back from his hunt."

"We'll go back and look for his brother tomorrow," I say, yawning. "We got some stuff we need to pick up anyway."

"Who's 'we'?" Lori asks, eyeing her husband. "You aren't going _back _there, are you?"

"Lori, I wouldn't be if it weren't absolutely necessary," Rick tells her earnestly. "Don't worry, I'll take some good people with me. Glenn?"

"No," Glenn groans. "Oh, come on."

"You know that city like no one else does," Rick reasons with him. "We need you."

"Well, what about protecting the camp?" Shane argues before anyone else can speak. "You gonna just walk off on your own? You're gonna risk three of our people—four, 'cause you know Daryl's coming when he hears. And not only them, you're putting every single one of us in danger. The walkers are moving out of the cities now there's not much food left there. They come back here, we need every able body we got, and we need them _here._"

"Seems to me what you really need is more guns," Rick replies calmly.

"Wait, what guns?" Shane asks, frowning.

"Six shotguns, two high-powered rifles, over a dozen handguns. I cleaned out the cage back at the station before I left. I dropped the bag back in Atlanta when I got swarmed. It's just sittin' there on the street, waiting to be picked up."

"Ammo?"

"Seven hundred rounds, assorted."

Shane cocks his head to the side, considering, while Lori looks back and forth between the two men, mouth open like she's prepared to argue with one or both of them.

"Alex?" Shane asks finally, glancing in my direction

"What?" I reply warily, crossing my arms. "If you're asking me to stay here—"

"We need people who can fight, protect the weaker ones. Rick said you're as good as any man."

"Of course I am!" I snap. "I'm not debating that. But I got stuff there, too, and no one knows where it is but me. I don't mean to be selfish or rude, but I don't recall signing an agreement with you people to protect your camp."

"Our people saved your life," he reminds me. "Now I wouldn't be asking this if we didn't really need you. I'll make it up to you later, I promise. As soon as the rest of them get back, you can do whatever you want, go anywhere."

"I never asked to be saved," I protest. "I do owe you guys, but…can it wait? It's important."

"As important as the lives of everyone here?" Shane counters, gesturing to the entire camp. I don't really have an argument for that one, so I just give an explosive sigh and run a hand through my hair.

"Okay, then," I concede reluctantly. "You win. I'll stay here. But I don't know how much good my knife's going to do against a lot of them at once."

"We have other weapons," says Dale. "How are you with a pitchfork?"

"Anything works, really," I shrug. "As long as it'll pierce a skull, it's all right."

"So it's settled, then?" Lori demands, looking at Rick. "You're going?"

Rick says nothing, just looks back at her, his eyes pleading.

"Dad, I don't want you to leave," Carl says quietly.

"I have to," Rick replies. "Lori, I owe a debt to a man and his boy. They saved my life."

"Well, what's stopping you from paying it?"

"The walkie talkies in that bag. I promised him I'd turn them on every day at dawn and try to get in touch with him. We were supposed to meet up."

"I've had about enough of life debts," I murmur, too low for anyone besides me to hear. I know already how the rest of this argument's going to play out, so I figure that I might as well get some sleep as not. I stand up and stretch, ignoring the conversation still going on between husband and wife which everyone else is listening to, and tap Andrea on the shoulder.

"I'm going to turn in," I say quietly when she looks up at me. "Do you know where I'm supposed to sleep?"

"You can share our tent," Amy offers. "We have room, don't we, Andrea?"

"Sure we do," Andrea smiles. "Make yourself at home. It's the blue one beside the RV, just so you know."

"Thank you so much," I say gratefully. "Well, I guess I'll see you guys in the morning."

"See you," the sisters reply, and I move away.

Maneuvering out of the circle, I trip over Shane's outstretched legs and almost stumble into Glenn, but his hand flashes out to steady me before I do.

"Sorry," I whisper, feeling my face heat up. Shane nods in response without looking at me, still watching Lori and Rick argue, and I back away into the darkness, hand on my knife hilt just in case there's something lurking over by the tents behind me. You can never be too careful, after all.

****A/N: To those of you have questions about the inevitable Shane x Alex relationship and how that relates to the overall storyline, I plan to take it a bit slowly, working from friends to confidants and then getting to the romance angle. Alex is also an observer in the drama going on between Lori, Rick, and Shane, just like we all were when watching the show. She doesn't get to see everything like we did, but since she's a conveniently observant character and tends to become a catalyst in whatever situation she's thrown into, it's not long before she figures out the whole story. For you romantics out there, don't worry. The lovely sappy parts are coming, they'll just take a little while to get here. ;)**

**Once again, all suggestions, complaints, and other miscellaneous commentaries are completely welcome, so don't hesitate to share your opinion.****


	5. Chapter 5: Where There's Life

****A/N: Here's the usual thanks to everyone who's read, reviewed, followed, favorited, etc. I really appreciate it, guys!**

Chapter Five: Where There's Life

Now that I stop to consider it, going off to the tents all by myself was probably a bad idea. I've gone from tired and wary to just plain jittery in the short time I've been alone. Instead of lying down, I'm crouching on an unrolled sleeping bag in the light of a small solar-powered lamp, with my knife at the ready. Each small noise sounds like shuffling footsteps, each gust of wind like moans in the distance, and I've given myself a headache from attempting to maintain three-hundred sixty degree visibility at all times. My eyes are going to become permanently lodged in the back of my head if I keep trying to see over my shoulder. I'm wound tighter than a coiled spring, just waiting for something to happen.

Then something does, and it scares the living daylights out of me. The instant I hear the rustle of something solid brushing against the front flap of the tent, see the shadow of a hand through the fabric, I'm on my feet, lunging forward with a hoarse yell. Steel scythes through canvas and I hear a high-pitched squeal. My brain processes this feverishly: thing outside squealed; walkers don't squeal; therefore, thing outside not walker.

I relax a bit, letting the breath out of my lungs, and unzip the tent. Amy's standing a few feet away from the opening, looking terrified out of her mind.

"Sorry," I rasp guiltily. "I thought—"

"No, it's okay," she gasps, holding a hand to her heart. "I don't blame you; you're just being careful. But really—next time, could you call out first and see if the thing answers before you go all ninja on its butt?"

I give a short laugh. "Okay, I will. Silent attacks are usually what I go with because it just seems to make them hungrier or something, if you make a noise. But I guess that's better than me gouging out the eye of a living person by mistake, huh?"

"I guess so," Amy replies, but she doesn't look reassured. On the contrary, she looks rather scared of me again. "Um…can I come in?"

"Of course!" I reply, startled. "It's your tent! I'm so sorry."

"No, it's all right," she repeats. "It's just fine. I was just making sure because, uh…you still have your knife out."

"Oh, sorry," I say apologetically, looking down at the weapon clutched in my tense fist. "Habit, I guess."

"Wow," Amy laughs as she climbs into the tent. "You're one dangerous chick. _Are _you a ninja?"

"Do I look Japanese?" I snort, gesturing to my blonde hair and almond-shaped gray eyes.

"No, but I wouldn't be surprised if you studied tai kwon do or something."

"Nope," I shake my head.

"Karate, then?" Amy frowns. "What _did _you do before?"

"I was a college student. A freshman at the University of South Carolina," I reply, thinking how long ago that was. "I wanted to transfer to some kind of law school in a few years, become a defense attorney. Either that, or I wanted to be an English teacher; I didn't think it was a big deal that I couldn't decide what to major in, seeing as it was only my first year in college. Oh, and I was on the track team. Top varsity spot, if you can believe it."

"Wow," she replies softly. "You're a woman of many talents, then."

"I guess so," I shrug. "Turns out the track practice was the only thing that mattered in the end, huh? Who would have thought it?"

She and I both chuckle a little at that, a thoughtful kind of laughter that trails away into contemplative silence.

"It's funny how things change, isn't it?" she says finally, yawning.

"Yeah," I agree with a touch of sarcasm. "It's a real scream. World goes to pot, the track stars survive. Revenge of the jocks."

"Are you okay?" Amy asks, sounding abruptly concerned. "You look really pale."

"I'm fine. Just a little jittery. I…haven't slept in two days," I mutter, my voice getting smaller with the admission.

Her jaw drops. "Really? Alex, that's unhealthy! Why haven't you slept?"

"I couldn't!" I snap, glaring at her. "There was no one to watch my back; how was I supposed to? Can you imagine sleeping with all _that _out there and nobody to wake you up in case something happened? No way was I going to let my guard down for that long!"

"But—but you have to sleep sometime," Amy stammers, looking me up and down with anxious eyes. "No wonder you're exhausted. That's not good for you."

"Getting eaten alive isn't really good for you either," I point out with a wry smile. "Anyway, I'm here now, aren't I? Now I have a whole bunch of people to keep watch while I get my rest."

"It's a good thing, too," she says, still staring at me incredulously. "I don't know how much longer you would have lasted. Not even ninjas can go for days without sleeping, you know, not without serious consequences, anyway."

I give a short laugh, staring at the tent walls and trying not to let my eyes glaze over. I can feel my body still shaking with jittery tension, and make a conscious effort to relax my muscles.

"Maybe I should try to get some sleep," I mutter almost inaudibly, curling in on myself where I sit.

"Yeah," Amy yawns. "Andrea's on guard duty tonight, so she won't mind you having her sleeping bag. And just so you know, Shane is, too, so you have nothing to worry about. Nothing gets past him."

"Mmm," I reply vaguely, stretching out on my side. My mind long since drifted away from the present moment, as if eager to find an escape once I allow it to. Something in the back of it is reassured, nonetheless, and the last of my muscles relaxes, allowing me to melt down into the sleeping bag with an exhausted sigh. It seems that the moment I permit myself to unwind from my tightly coiled state, the tendrils of sleep are reaching up to pull me into their abyss, until finally the last pieces of my consciousness fragment and dissolve into the welcoming darkness.

Just before I fall asleep, I hear the cry of an owl, echoing from far away in the woods. The sound is somehow reassuring, as if it's there just to let me know that _something _out there is still alive, if only for a little while. What was that stupid adage my mom used to say whenever I got particularly bitter and cynical?

Where there's life there's hope.

Maybe that can still be true, even for people like us, the last of a dying species.


End file.
